


Unconventional Meetings

by SolarMorrigan



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: 00Q is only kinda hinted at, Gen, Writer AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-21
Updated: 2019-04-21
Packaged: 2020-01-23 12:30:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,974
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18549802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SolarMorrigan/pseuds/SolarMorrigan
Summary: Bond, a mystery writer, has been coaxed (forced) into attending a comic convention as one of the creator guests. He's ready to write off the entire weekend as a loss when an interesting (attractive) fan makes him reconsider





	Unconventional Meetings

**Author's Note:**

> Oh man, it's been months since I've written anything longer than a few hundred words for Bond! This was fun, though! I have one or two more ideas in this universe, but I thought I'd stop here for now

Surely this was some form of punishment. That had to be it.

Bond liked meeting with his fans as much as the next writer, sure. He’d done book signings and meet-and-greets and even given a few talks, but being stuck behind a table for hours at a time for three days in a row while nerds in increasingly elaborate and baffling costumes came up to constantly demand his attention?

Punishment. Had to be.

Appearing as one of the creator guests at a comic convention had been his publisher’s bright idea. Mallory seemed to think that Bond was losing touch with his fans, and that this event would be a great step towards making him relevant again.

Bond had scoffed at that. He was plenty _relevant_ , thank you very much. Maybe he hadn’t been as inspired to write lately, and maybe he’d been drinking a bit more, and maybe his sales weren’t what they had been when he’d peaked in popularity (but whose _were,_ honestly?) – maybe he’d hit a bit of a rough patch, yes, but a comic convention? He didn’t even _write_ comics.

Mallory had (somewhat) patiently explained that comic conventions hosted all sorts of interests these days and that the name was more of a holdover; Bond and his books would be perfectly welcome there.

They had argued the point for some time, but it had eventually come down to the point that Bond was under contract. He was going.

So fine, he was going.

That didn’t mean he had to be happy about it, though.

Bond had, unfortunately, not been allowed to show up fashionably late (or otherwise get conveniently “lost” on his way to the convention center), as Mallory had shown up bright and early to ferry him to the convention himself. A hired driver might have been easily swayed into a detour of some kind, but Mallory had always had a certain immunity to Bond’s brand of charisma, and they arrived with more than enough time to spare.

They were greeted by a friendly and polite staff member who presented Bond with his badge and showed them to his table; it was already set up with stacks of books and glossy photos, well stocked with pens and markers and even bottled water, and the staffer had promised Bond that if he needed anything, he need only ask. Mallory had given Bond a warning look— _don’t be a bloody nuisance_ —that Bond had yet to decide whether or not to blow off, then headed out, promising to return with something good to eat around lunchtime.

After rearranging his table (not to be _petty,_ of course, but because there was simply a certain way he preferred it), there wasn’t much else for Bond to do but familiarize himself with the schedule and take a look at the other guests.

His table was situated between the author of a series of pirate books—friendly enough man, if not altogether interesting to Bond—and a graphic novelist who had not yet arrived.

While Bond would be the first to admit that he wasn’t the biggest fan of comics, he could tell that the art was quite good. There were several comic pages and standalone drawings displayed behind the table, all clean lines and sharp shadows, that indicated the artist worked mainly in science fiction.

Though Bond’s claim to fame was mystery and suspense, he could appreciate a good sci-fi story; he did love the fantastical gadgets some authors could dream up, and the way they could be utilized in the plot, though he himself preferred to write in good, clean explosions.

Most of Bond’s books were deceptively simple, and he took pride in the fact that many of his readers, even the ones who thought they were wise to his tricks, were often blindsided by the twists his stories took. He was a damned good writer and he knew it. He’d been at it for years and had quite a cult following. If Mallory thought he needed to make Bond relevant again, he was mistaken.

“Excuse me?” A soft voice pulled Bond from his brooding.

Looking up, Bond found a young man standing in front of his table. Had he zoned out so long that he’d missed the start of the convention? Bond glanced around; no, there were no other guests queueing up. Whoever this kid was, he must have been a staff member.

(Bond _hoped_ he was a staff member, and not some overenthusiastic fan who’d managed to sneak in.)

“I’m sorry to bother you before we’ve even opened for the day, but I’d hoped to have a chance to talk to you before things got too crowded,” the young man was saying. “It’s just that I’m really quite a fan of yours – have been for years.”

And Mallory thought he was losing touch.

Bond grinned, extending his hand. “Then it’s a pleasure to meet you.”

The young man smiled in return, shaking the outstretched hand. “Likewise.”

Bond noted the fine lines around the man’s eyes—nearly hidden by his glasses but emphasized by his smile—with some relief. He wasn’t quite as young as he looked, and Bond didn’t have to worry about going to hell for letting his eyes linger on the lush curve of his mouth. The man had a very attractive smile.

“You’ve been a fan long, you said?” Bond asked after a moment.

“Almost since the beginning.” The man nodded, reaching into the messenger bag hanging at his side and unearthing a battered copy of Bond’s second novel. “This one’s been my favorite since uni.”

Well, that did make Bond feel a bit old, but he’d been publishing for over a decade, so he supposed it could be expected.

“That’s certainly an older one,” Bond commented, teasing. “Surely I’ve written better things since then?”

“Your writing is always changing. I didn’t say it was your best, though – just that it was my favorite.”

“Fair enough,” Bond ceded, reaching for a pen. “It’s a well-loved copy, but I can sign, if you’d like.”

“Oh,” the man’s eyes went wide as he shook his head, “I wasn’t angling for anything, I only – we’re not even open, yet.”

“I don’t mind,” Bond said, offering his best charming smile just to see the man fluster further.

“Well – thank you. I have my wallet in here, just a moment.” The man turned to reach into his bag again, only for Bond to reach out and gently pry the book from his grasp.

“Don’t worry about it,” Bond insisted. “Like you said, we’re not even open yet.”

The man tsked. “You’re supposed to charge for this,” he said wryly, though he was still harboring a pleased little flush high on his cheeks.

“I won’t tell anyone if you don’t.” Bond winked up at the man, who laughed, a little incredulous.

Bond knew it was a little tacky, and more than a little obvious, but sometimes that seemed to be exactly what it took to make people relax. In his experience, being just a bit outlandish with his flirting had a charm of its own – it certainly seemed to be working on the young man, in any case.

Perhaps Bond was stuck at the convention for the weekend, but it was possible a very agreeable diversion for the evenings had just walked up to him.

“What is it about this one that makes it your favorite?” Bond asked as he signed beneath his printed name on the title page.

“A few things, I suppose.” The man shrugged, readjusting the strap of his bag where it was slung across his chest. “It was one of the first books I’d read that made me feel as though the ending had slapped me in the face.”

Bond snorted. “Shall I take that as a compliment?”

“Very much so. At the time, I considered myself very hard to surprise.”

“And now?”

“Now, I try a little harder to just let things be enjoyable,” the man said after a moment’s consideration.

“Not a bad way to live,” Bond replied, handing the book back over to him.

The man gave him a pleased smile, holding the book to his chest. “It’s not,” he agreed. “And thank you.”

“No trouble at all,” Bond promised.

“Your style really is quite addictive, though,” the man went on. “Once I’d read a few of your books, I started to really enjoy finding the subtle clues you’d leave in plain sight.”

“Trying to catch me out?” Bond chuckled.

“Trying, not always succeeding,” the man admitted. “I would say your work was… rather influential on me, when I tried my own hand at some creative endeavors. Perhaps not the mystery element, but your gift for suspense.”

“High praise.” Bond raised his brows; he hoped he wasn’t about to receive a pitch for someone’s novel – the man didn’t seem the type, but one could never quite tell. “Do you write?”

“A bit.” There was something coy about the answer, a sort of joke Bond didn’t seem to get, but the man moved on before Bond could ask. “I was a little surprised to learn you would be here, you know. It’s not quite the sort of thing you’ve done before.”

Bond grimaced. “My publisher’s idea,” he admitted readily. “I’m still not convinced I fit in with all of this.”

The man cocked his head, curious. “How so?”

“I’m a novelist. Most of the things around me are comics–”

“And graphic novels,” the man added.

“Yes, and those.” Bond waved his hand. “They’re not the same as real books, is all.”

There was an immediate change in the man’s posture; once open and interested, it was very suddenly stiff and withdrawn. “Is that so?”

Shit. He was probably a fan of comics – graphic novels – whatever, Bond wasn’t one hundred percent clear on the difference.

“Nothing against them, of course,” Bond soothed. “I just think a story should be strong enough that it doesn’t need pictures to help it along.”

If possible, the man’s demeanor grew colder. He opened his mouth to respond, but the call of another voice cut him off.

“Queue!”

Bond glanced around, wondering if it was another staff member calling for guests to queue up, but only saw a woman approaching impressively fast for the pair of heels she was wearing. She marched right up to the man in front of Bond’s table, who immediately looked less irritated and a little more chastened.

“We open in a few minutes, you should be behind the table,” the woman said, holding up a lanyard. “And you left your badge in the room.”

The man offered a chagrinned sort of half smile. “Sorry, Eve.” He accepted the badge and threw one last frosty glance in Bond’s direction. “Got distracted on my way over.”

As the man pulled the lanyard over his head, Bond got a quick glimpse of the single-letter name printed on it: Q.

Intrigued, Bond watched as the young man walked away from Bond’s table without any further acknowledgement but didn’t go far; he made his way around the empty table beside Bond’s and sat down in front of the art and comic prints hanging there.

Q shoved the book Bond had signed back into his bag and pulled out a sketchbook and pencil, apparently settling himself in for the day, and Bond reached for the copy of the convention program he’d been given. He flipped through to the pages containing brief bios of the guests and found Q.

A relative newcomer to the scene, he was an artist and writer; he was author and illustrator of a popular graphic novel series Bond didn’t recognize the name of, as well as a few standalones, and was apparently one of the weekend’s featured creator guests…

…and Bond’s neighbor for the weekend, it seemed.

Well. This would be fun.

**Author's Note:**

> So, Bond's maybe a little out of touch regarding new things in the world of writing. He'll come around pretty quickly, though
> 
> Also posted on [Tumblr](http://solarmorrigan.tumblr.com/post/184346781083/unconventional-meetings-james-bond-hinted-00q)


End file.
